The Ork troop shuffled down a winding tunnel, walls covered in moss that glowed a deep blue. There were plenty of branching tunnels, but the path we took was almost perfectly straight until we hit what appeared to be a major traveling junction. Our tunnel, which was already quite large to begin with, merged into a bustling street-like plaza. Throngs of Orks milled about makeshift camps, eating, drinking, and brawling. Massive pipes and machines lined the edges of the tunnel, which in turn were covered in a variety of makeshift hovels, haphazardly constructed from random materials ranging from metal to wood to what looked like the flayed skin of one of the smaller goblins. And speaking of goblins, there were literally thousands of the little critters running too and fro, carrying various burdens, often food and drink. It was immediately obvious that both races had a social hierarchy, as the smaller made way for and differed to the larger and better dressed. And boy were there some serious size differences. Some few were so large, the average Ork barely reached chest height on the humongous creatures.

What with being constant pushed and shoved forward, it was hard to pick out more details on my surroundings, so I wasn't able to determine just what types of dress had significant status symbolism, but there were enough cases of slightly larger Orks making way for smaller ones with more flamboyant weaponry and clothing, there was definitely something beyond just physical size determining status. And given that I was a newborn, whose size was definitely on the lower spectrum, I found myself keenly interested in just what determined these social hierarchies. Also, having a trail of thought that didn't involve contemplation of my death, a recently commited murder, or the why's and how's of my reincarnation was quite appealing. There was only so much craziness I can process at once, after all.

The wide variety of dress and weaponry was quite eye-opening. Though my exposure to Warhammer 40k was limited, I knew enough that Ork culture was very warlike, and given the game was focused around battles, there wasn't much focus on life outside the battlefield. At least, that's what it seemed like from the few lore tidbits I'd gotten from let's plays, Dawn of War, and that sort of thing. In truth, I couldn't really say I knew much of anything about the Orks. I knew there were various clans, but not their names or differences. I knew they grow from Fungus, and could survive pretty much anywhere. And I knew they LOVED to fight. Not much to go on. A faint memory made me question just how much of Orkishness was genetic versus social, more particularly, if by having my human mind, I was missing out on any social clues that the rest were picking up.

This thought focused all my attention on the behavior of the other newborns and their interactions with the bigger Boyz. The next few minutes were rather enlightening. First, I noticed that they constantly needed reminding -often in the form of a swift kick to the rear- that they were going somewhere, and couldn't just wander off. The distinct lack of kicks on my part was quite lucky, and nobody was paying me any special attention because of this, which was doubly lucky. Of course, I got kicked soon after that thought, but it seemed more on the principle of newborns are always in the wrong, rather than any failure on my part.

My observation also revealed a very important detail. The newborns appeared to instinctively know how to handle the little goblins, their main mode of communication being pointing and shouting at bearers of food and drink, which nearly always got the critter to bring over its load, which was promptly consumed, and the deliverer given a small kick to let him know the Ork was finished with him. Of course, knowing I could order the goblins to fetch me food was important, but the real kicker was seeing what happened when the goblins refused. One newborn got so pissed, he took a swipe at the fleeing goblin, but one of our escorts kicked the newborn so hard, he broke his leg.

This was followed by a brief introduction in social hierarchies from the lead Ork. “Datz dah Nob’z Grot. No touchin’ dose wiff dah black ‘ats.” Sure enough, there were half a dozen goblins wearing spikey black hats in the milling crowd, which every other goblin made way for. They all carried big pouches stuffed with scraps of paper, weapons, odds and ends, and the most delicious smelling mushrooms to date. No doubt some sort of special messengers and couriers for the elite, or else nobody would bother stopping a newborn from snatching up a goblin for a snack. I'd seen it happen twice already, though I tried to suppress the memories of glistening flesh being pulled apart in delicious, lip-smacking fashion.

Several more minutes passed before we reached our destination, during which the limping Ork quickly became the target of much harassment from the other newborns. A side tunnel branched off the main thoroughfare, its entrance covered in colorful ( for Ork standards ) iconography along with plenty of skulls, spikes, and various sharp objects. What seemed like a rough attempt at a sculpture jutted out from the roof of the tunnel's entrance, a crudely shaped head with oversized teeth. At the center of its head was a crescent moon painted a garish, golden yellow.

We marched in to a few cheers and jibes from what appeared to be gate guards. And by appears, I mean that they were napping and eating near the entrance, and making sure to give ugly glares to everyone that entered, even each other. The leader took a moment to talk with one of the guards, who had clearly just woken up from a drunken stupor. While we waited, I noticed one of the newborns break off the end of a rather nasty spike that was serving as a makeshift wall around the tunnel entrance, holding the weapon like an oversized club. More importantly, he wasn't smacked for it, so I ripped myself a hefty chunk of wood and metal for myself, and gave it a few test swings. Horrible balance, and the metal was all scarred and pitted, but it was heavy and sharp on one end, making it a far better option than bare fists.

A fight broke out between two newborns as time dragged on, which gathered a small crowd of cheering and jeering greenskins. It was both unnerving and exciting to watch the two beat each other up with their bare fists. I was as used to violence as a newborn rabbit, but something had definitely changed along with the reincarnation, and the fight held far more enjoyment then I would like to admit. There was just something beautiful about the arc of a broken tooth as it flew into the crowd, only to be snatched out of the air by a daring goblin, who ran off with his prize, chased by a dozen snarling competitors.

Eventually, one was beaten down enough that he didn't get back up, and rather than kill the downed Ork, the victor basked in the adulation of the crowd, grinning widely at the roaring audience, acting out the part of a victorious gladiator. A small bit of envy pricked at my surface thoughts, and my hold on my club tightened as I imagined myself at the center of all that glorious attention. And why not? Why shouldn't I be top newborn around here? I was a few inches taller than that posing git, and I had a club. I could krump ‘im right and propah, and take ‘is teef!

A grin split my face, and I was halfway to the empty ring surrounding the fight when a loud roar caused every head to turn. An absolutely massive Ork trotted out of the small fort. His form towered above everyone, hardly any Orks even reaching his shoulders. The monstrosity radiated a sense of power and strength that struck a chord deep inside me. Every shred of attention was captivated by the unheavenly creature that stood at the head of the crowd.

Silence filled the tunnel as all eyes turned to the massive, weapon-laden beast. The Ork merely stared at the crowd for what felt like an eternity, his eyes roaming across all the newborns one by one. When his eyes fell on me, it felt like my very soul was being exposed in full. Feelings welled up in me that have not been voiced by mankind since ancient days. A fear and respect for a predator so powerful, we could only pray it would pass us by, knowing all resistance was futile. Even after his eyes left mine, that primal energy filled me to the brim, and I hung on his every movement.

The Ork opened his wide mouth, and let slip a phrase so poetic, so meaningful, it nearly brought a tear to my eye.

“We gonna stomp them gitz, boyz!”

Blood surged to my head, along with an adrenaline rush so sweet, it put the most exquisite cheesecake to shame. I cheered along with a thousand voices, taking up a chant as we rushed to follow the leader as he pelted through the crowd, and onto the street plaza.

“Stomp, Stomp, Stomp, Stomp!”

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGHHHHH!”